


Sharp end

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25024615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: for the prompt:Ferdinand wants to be the Black Eagles representative for the White Heron Cup because he is a wonderful dancer, but for some strange reason, Professor Byleth picks Felix as the class representative.This irks Ferdinand because Felix doesn't care about dancing and doesn't seem to be giving his lessons his all (Ferdinand has been watching). But he is a gracious loser, as a noble should be, and he wants his class to win, so he offers to help Felix become a dancer worthy of the Cup.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31
Collections: Anonymous





	Sharp end

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer I don't know a lot about dances in general :'))
> 
> link to the full prompt: https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1608.html?thread=1931336

Ferdinand had learned to dance before he even came close to touching a sword. He’s had his wrist slapped several times over that – not enough to discourage a young boy’s growing love for the arts. A fine taste that would later earn him the best compliments, and Ferdinand tries not to dwell on the bitter taste that comes with it. Because, when puberty hit, he’d hear the whispers of how _dashing_ he’d later look, how elegant and already so precise his form was, and that had been reward enough.

Ferdinand loves dancing, but he loves even more being told he is good at it. Ferdinand adores compliments, but what he cherishes the most is the cheer of the crowd, and him being the reason for it.

That is why he spends hours, days, nights practicing for the White Heron Cup. Of all the traditions and customs of the Officer’s Academy, the yearly ball had been the one he had looked forward to the most. It was supposed to be everything he’s ever dreamed of, a stepping stone in his young life as a noble, and the obvious proof House Aegir had nothing to envy to the Hresvelg.

So far into the school year and despite the more troublesome events, Ferdinand has had many occasions – and took them – to show their professor his obvious talent for dancing. Ferdinand believed, maybe too innocently, that the professor had acknowledged as much and perhaps even _liked_ Ferdinand’s dancing skills. A fool’s hope.

Ferdinand’s speech to defend his rightful position as the House representative is ready and practiced, but he never gets to deliver it. The professor must think it useless to talk to him beforehand, and the decision is made before Ferdinand can protest – he will not be the House representative. He has to hear it from Dorothea, herself surprised that no one came to inform him of his predicament.

The walk to his room is one of shame. He swallows back his ego in front of his comrades, and allows the bitter taste of defeat to linger in privacy. Unbecoming, to sulk like a child, but Ferdinand thinks that there’s little else he can do for now. His dream, crushed so easily, is a blow he takes too personally, too quickly. The professor hardly meant to hurt Ferdinand like they did – knowing that does not soothe the pain either.

Ferdinand simply has to strive to do better, and prove himself worthy of more consideration in the future. He has no other choice.

* * *

He thinks he is over it – as much he can be – when the news of who exactly has been picked reach him the next day. Then, he thinks, he might not be over it yet.

Felix Hugo Fraldarius has a lot of qualities, to deny that would be foolish at best, dangerous at worst. Following his recruitment to the Black Eagles House, he had took it upon himself to challenge every single one of them in a sword dual. An odd, unrefined form of bonding, that nevertheless proved to be efficient and had Felix enjoy casual conversation with some of them in the following days. He had won against every single one of them, but struggled the most against Petra. She had congratulated him on his skill by the end of it, and Ferdinand was inclined to agree with the sentiment. Felix’s swords skills are, after all, maddeningly good.

However, Felix’s talent for swinging swords and forming unlikely friendships are truly the only two things Ferdinand can bring himself to compliment about the man.

He does not know if it is a Faerghus or Felix thing, to hold so little regard for the duty of nobles in other domains. Seeing Sylvain’s more indecent ways and Ingrid’s table manners, it could easily be a little bit of both. That isn’t nearly enough to excuse Felix’s attitude, his daily rudeness and lack of tactfulness. It would surprise Ferdinand if the man could ride a horse into battle, or partake in the demanding arts of tea making and tea parties. The last word one would associate with Felix Hugo Fraldarius is no doubt _delicacy_.

That is why he is the last person in the Black Eagles who should be their representative. Ferdinand has never seen Felix dance, but has obvious reasons to believe it will not be a refined thing. He can’t help thinking of the long hours he himself had spent practicing for this, and feeling only bitterness when meeting with Felix before class that day. He does not know whether he feels glad or insulted that Felix seems to have no clue what caused Ferdinand’s chagrin.

Ferdinand does not dwell on that. The next day, he’s made his decision – it is his duty as noble to make sure Felix’s dance performance does not reflect badly on the Black Eagles House. No longer will he mourn his lost opportunity to shine and sulk like a child, because Ferdinand von Aegir has a duty to fulfill.

And well, if his noble duty requires some less noble-like spying, it is only a means to an end. The professor is graciously offering dancing lessons to Felix, loudly correcting his pose every five seconds. Ferdinand is both horrified and fascinated by the spectacle – Felix isn’t _bad_ at dancing, he’s making it so absolutely hideous it is impossible to look away.

It dawns on Ferdinand that this, this dreadful spectacle, is how the Black Eagles House will be remembered by their peers. They will laugh, recalling Felix Hugo Fraldarius assassinating a waltz on stage, and assume this is how every noble in Adrestia dances. Ferdinand can forget his disappointment, bury his hurt, but he cannot, he absolutely cannot let that happen. He will not stand idle and let this disaster happen.

That is why he later corners Felix, before he gets to the training ground, and smiles with all the politeness he can muster. “Lovely to see you Felix. I wished to speak with you, would you have a moment?”

Felix does not even _try_ to hide his reluctance. His routine is, after all, disrupted. “What do you want?”

“Well,” Ferdinand starts, “I wished to congratulate you. It is truly an honor to be chosen as the House representative for the White Heron Cup and I hope you are aware of that.” Felix definitely looks like he doubts it. Ferdinand feels the tiniest bit annoyed. “Though, if you’ll excuse my straightforwardness, I don’t think you take that role seriously enough.”

Felix frowns, annoyed. “I didn’t exactly ask for it. Just say what you want and leave me alone.”

“Very well,” Ferdinand sighs, “your dance steps are the worst I have ever seen. I don’t know what went through the professor’s head as they should know better, yet here we are. Should you dance this way the day of the Cup, I will most likely die of embarrassment and so will every noble in Adrestia. That is why I, Ferdinand von Aegir, have decided to teach you at least the bare minimum before that day comes.”

Felix scoffs. “You have decided? On your own?” He shakes his head and resumes his walk to the training ground. “I hardly give a fuck about the Cup. I hate dancing. Leave me alone.”

Ferdinand follows closely behind, himself slowly losing his temper. “That attitude is most unbecoming! Don’t you care about your classmates? About our – your reputation? You are a black eagle now, is that title worth so little in your eyes?”

They keep walking in strange silence until they reach their destination. Finally, Felix glances at him, although briefly. “Whatever. If that gets you to shut up.”

Ferdinand rejoices in his win.

* * *

Ferdinand has learned to dance through imitation. Of course, he now believes that it must be the best way for anyone else to learn, and gladly starts his dance lessons with a demonstration.

Felix looks thoroughly bored to tears. He isn’t giving it his all – Ferdinand can tell, he’s seen him working with the professor. Still, Ferdinand tries to make it sound more appealing and does it all again with commentary. He’s satisfied to see Felix paying more attention, and eventually even ask questions.

He picks another type of dance, this time more energetic, but doesn’t even as much as break a sweat. This time, Felix’s gaze is solely focused on him.

“Why don’t you fight like that?” Felix asks, when it comes to an end.

Ferdinand is momentarily stunned, before collecting himself. “What? What do you mean by that?”

As if pressured into it, Felix stands up and gestures towards Ferdinand’s figure. “When you fight, there’s something holding you back. Now, you… Well, feels like you’re giving it your all. Your footwork is good. So why don’t you fight like that?”

First of all, Ferdinand feels highly offended. When hasn’t he given his all into fighting? To surpass Edelgard, he’d take the stars out of the sky. The implication that is he voluntarily holding back is beyond him. “Are you implying my footwork is usually bad?”

“What? No, do you even listen?”

“I do,” Ferdinand says, annoyance slipping in his tone, “you insulted my fighting style. I am not wrong about that.”

Felix looks like he’s been the one insulted. “I’m trying to tell you – never mind. Just go on.”

Ferdinand graciously steps back, leaving more room to Felix. “I am quite done. I’d love to see if you’ve picked up on some things and improved.”

The change of pace is most welcome, and putting Felix on the spot almost enjoyable. Ferdinand does not feel guilty, after having such words uttered to his face. Predictably very much annoyed, Felix makes his first attempt – as unrefined as Ferdinand expected. But it is true Felix now holds his head higher, takes more confident steps. A small improvement, an improvement nonetheless. Ferdinand gestures him to stop. Felix waits for him to talk.

“Good. Now, with feeling. You are not beating down a training dummy, you are putting on a show. Remember, the whole crowd will be watching you.”

Felix rolls his eyes but tries again. Incredibly, he fails, and not only are his previous hints of improvement gone but his body is more rigid than a stick. Ferdinand gets closer, stopping the massacre with his own hands. “Alright, that is quite enough. Say, have you ever shared a dance?” He does not wait for the answer, and brings Felix’s hand to his hip. “Keep your eyes on me. Follow the steps, adapt.” Felix’s hand, feeling completely out of place, relaxes a little. Ferdinand is pleased. Felix is looking back at him exactly like he’d asked. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but could it be you don’t like having an audience?” He quietly asks, as he settles his own hand on Felix’s shoulder.

Felix frowns, nearly looks away, but does not give in. “I can’t ‘put on a show’,” he argues. “I’d rather have my blade.”

Ferdinand knows this – except this time, the remark makes him smile. It is true Felix does not belong in grand ballrooms. Felix does not look like he belongs in nobility either. He starts moving, and Felix follows. “I will not deny you shine much brighter on the battlefield. But I’d like you to consider this – a dance is like a fight. A fight for perfection, from the tip of your fingers to the weight in your feet. And if you let – even for a second – a single weakness show, the performance is ruined, or in other words, you die.”

Felix mulls over those words. His stiff body progressively finds its rhythm next to Ferdinand’s practiced one. Eventually, he simply says, “It’s stupid.”

Ferdinand hums, before slowing down and rearranging their hands. “Then think of this: I am your opponent. Defeat me.” The pace picks up, leaving Felix behind. He stumbles, trying and failing to match Ferdinand’s ease, anger increasing accordingly. Through sheer determination, he imitates Ferdinand’s moves, getting more accurate with each second. Ferdinand chuckles, bringing his hand to Felix shoulder once again. “Good, now let’s try this again.” Sure enough, the unbridled Fraldarius is now much more acute and precise. Still somehow clumsy, but much better.

They reach the end of the dance, and Ferdinand can’t help noticing the forming sweat on the base of Felix’s neck. He looks away just as quickly, ignoring it happened at all. Felix looks half exasperated, half – happy. “So this is it? I’m good to go?”

Ferdinand chuckles, pulling Felix a little closer. “You must know a dance with a partner always ends with a kiss.” Foolishly, probably because he’s been a little too enthusiastic during their dance, he brings Felix’s knuckles to his lips, kissing them like any gentleman would. He glimpses Felix’s _delicate_ yet strong wrist and Saints, what has become of him. He drops the hand quickly, hoping it doesn’t come off as harsh, and bows a little. This is a dance practice, not shy young love. “Anyway, the Cup isn’t for partnered dances. Please try again the solo.” He manages to say.

He doesn’t dare to look at Felix. His misplaced gesture had been embarrassing enough on its own. And so, Felix does not move either for a while. Ferdinand gestures him to start, and eventually he does. Ferdinand continues to feel mortified. He does not know what prompted this at all, and desperately wishes to take it back or correct Felix on his intentions – neither would work, as that would bring attention to it, the last thing Ferdinand wants.

He watches Felix once again doing the choreography. Far from perfect, but the intention is there and it shows beautifully. And maybe, Ferdinand can admit that he is wrong, and that he does know why he kissed Felix’s hand. When Felix fights – it is an art in itself. Ferdinand can’t deny seeing beauty when it stands before him so clearly. Felix’s lack of manner should be nothing but repulsive, yet it is almost endearing to see him putting an effort into the task Ferdinand has given him. The heat of the moment – seeing Felix’s face from so close – must be explanation enough.

Felix is a stunning, rude and relentless man, and horribly that might be Ferdinand’s type.

“Very well,” he affirms. “There’s progress. I’m sure you feel it as well.”

Felix stops dancing, casting a strange look in Ferdinand’s direction. “Sure. Meeting your standards yet?”

Ferdinand crosses the distance between them, walks around Felix and puts his hand on between his shoulder blades. “Not there yet. Stand prouder.” He encourages with a nudge, and feels Felix hesitating. Ferdinand’s hand stays right there, and Felix relaxes against it and stands straighter. “Very good. Now, show me your hand.” A very confused Felix raises his hand. “Do that again, but with less weight in your movement – as if your arm was floating, and your fingers guiding it.” Felix tries, but never quite manages to reach the grace Ferdinand is looking for. As he gets more annoyed, his performance suffers, and Ferdinand grabs his wrist. “That… is not working. Shall I show you again?”

It feels like Felix wants nothing more than to push Ferdinand away, and storm off at this instant, yet he does none of that. He clenches his fist, speaks lowly, “It’s not like we didn’t know I’d suck at it.”

“Well, it truly is a long way to go but there’s some potential. I think –”

“– Fuck, can you stop – just turn around.”

“Oh,” Ferdinand breathes out, “of course”. He flushes, letting go of Felix’s wrist. Felix is the one to turn around, displeased. Ferdinand scolds himself internally for allowing something like this to happen, _again_. “I must apologize. Still, I truly believe you can do better than that.”

It is the wrong thing to say, he knows as soon as he sees Felix’s scowl. “Maybe I can, but I probably won’t, is this over yet?”

Then – maybe it isn’t so much about winning the Cup, or leaving a good impression. Ferdinand meant it, Felix has the potential to be maddeningly good dancer too if he gives himself the time. Ferdinand wants him to understand that. “If you’ll indulge me with more of your time, I can swear you will. Please, Felix, I am most sincere.”

Felix looks for the lie in his words, and looks away when he finds none. “Fine.”

More than pleased, Ferdinand returns a smile. Elegantly, he raises his hand, fingers inviting. Felix accepts, almost shyly, and Ferdinand does not have it in his heart to tell him it was meant as an example to reproduce. This time, he leads the dance, encouraging Felix to put more grace and sensitivity in his gestures. Ferdinand offers advice, albeit carefully worded, that Felix wonderfully listens to.

“Very good!” He exclaims, after a particularly well paced combination. It had the unexpected effect of almost getting Felix to smile. Ferdinand is transfixed by that expression on Felix’s face, and nearly misses a step – a mistake he cannot afford, he recovers quickly. Felix looks satisfied enough, and reverses their position with newly acquired ease. Ferdinand lets him – dances with more fervor. A shame, truly, that their duo does not have a musical background. Like this, with Felix meeting him halfway, they create a show worthy of bigger audience than a few chairs.

“Is that all?” Felix asks, at some point.

Ferdinand has to force himself not to stare at his partner’s lips, forever looking for another smile. “Hm? Oh, I guess we haven’t done any slow dances, but that is hardly something I think you’ll ever need.” The mere thought of Felix sharing a dance like that with someone brings a smile to Ferdinand’s lips. Something far too unlikely to seriously think about.

“Well, we’ve gotten this far,” Felix argues, looking away in apparent disinterest.

Ferdinand does not quite place that tone, and when he does he’s equally embarrassed. “Oh. Oh well, I don’t see any harm in that. Let me…” He puts his arms around Felix’s waist, awkwardly. He has been taught how to dance it, but also been told he should not share this kind of dance with just anyone. He wonders, briefly, if Felix knows this too, as he circles Ferdinand’s own waist. “Now, slowly. No need to worry about the crowd – this kind of dance is not meant to be a spectacle.” He hopes his voice does not waver.

It is uncomfortable, at first. When Ferdinand feels he can relax, Felix will stiffen all over again, and distractedly _rub_ against Ferdinand. It is easy to dismiss, less so when Ferdinand starts actively reacting to each unplanned touch. He wishes to melt into a puddle of shame, and never look at Felix in the eyes. Felix does not seem to acknowledge the growing issue, and willingly picks up his pace – and Ferdinand’s, incidentally. It is insufferable.

This is no longer about teaching Felix how to dance – he has the basics. This is purely happening because _Felix_ asked for it, and now _will not stop_ teasing the fabric near Ferdinand’s erection. Ferdinand knows he could disengage completely, call it an end, forget about this ever happening. But now, he feels vengeful, and if Felix is going to tease there no reason he shouldn’t – indulge. He angles his hips better, presses his torso closer to Felix’s until he can feel all his body fit nicely against him, then rolls his hips as discreetly as he can manage. The attempt is ruined, however, by the low moan in his mouth that he does not succeed to suppress completely.

Felix’s grasp tightens, he stops moving. Ferdinand is already listing all the things he needs to apologize for when the action is reciprocated, with more force. He’s left breathless. He continues – gently humping the thigh that is offered to him, fascinated by just how _good_ that feels. Felix does not object, rather encourages this. Ferdinand avoids at all cost eye contact.

When the need to touch himself becomes too unbearable, he realizes just how far he has allowed this to go. Felix, he notices, is pretty much in the same state. As if faced with the greatest challenge of his life, Ferdinand tries to pull away, hating every inch of distance he puts between himself and Felix. Then only he dares to look at Felix, and finds a matching dazed look. In the tightness of his underclothes, Ferdinand’s erection demands attention. “Do you, huh, my bedroom?” He offers awkwardly. Felix does not as much as blink. “Well, anyhow, good progress. I think – my job here is done.”

“Okay,” Felix says, expecting Ferdinand to understand what exactly he means. Ferdinand does not. But then Felix is walking away, knowing he’s been dismissed, willingly ignoring the elephant in the room. Ferdinand admits defeat once again, somehow more frustrated this time. He did not expect a thanks, but certainly even less an ignored erection.

Ferdinand follows suit not long after, nearly running in the direction of his room. Felix would not help him with the problem he’s created, so Ferdinand will very well take care of it himself. The hallway is empty, and Ferdinand allows himself palm himself through his pants as he opens the door to his room.

He nearly yelps at the sight of Felix sitting on his bed, arms crossed and legs parted. “You took your sweet time.” He stands up, closing the door Ferdinand had been too shocked to lock himself, and his hands find Ferdinand’s crotch all too easily. “I’ll show you a fight.”

Goddess help him, Ferdinand _likes_ it. He does not know if he will be able to look at Felix in the eyes the next day, or watch him dance without remembering this exact moment.

Felix takes great care of him, and Ferdinand takes great care of him in return. During that time, Ferdinand is not so upset at the professor’s odd choice.


End file.
